


Snakes and Vipers

by TiyeTiye



Series: Things That Go Bump In The Night [6]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Ghosts, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Medusa - Freeform, Monsters, Shipwrecks, Snakes, Spirits, Turned to Stone, Vikings, Vipers, gorgon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 10:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13362534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiyeTiye/pseuds/TiyeTiye
Summary: Fleeing the ghost of his father and the legacy of his family, Sigurd Snake-In-The-Eye is shipwrecked during a violent storm. To obtain a new ship, he agrees to help a local general with an ancient problem.





	Snakes and Vipers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [@romanchronicles](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%40romanchronicles).



> Warnings: Violence (can also be seen as violence towards women at the end), blood and gore, general creepiness, just a little bit of peril

Sigurd left. 

Ivar was crazy, with the mind of a child, but no one else could see it. No one else _would_ see it. 

So Sigurd left. 

Let Ivar and his brothers do whatever they wanted, take the Great Army and keep raiding or make new settlements in the lands that Ecbert had given them - Sigurd didn’t care anymore. Their father Ragnar had been avenged. Sigurd had done his part. He was done. 

Done with his brothers, done with their rivalry, done with Ivar and his madness. Done with always having to prove himself to be a “real Viking” and with trying to live up to his father’s name. So he would just go. Leave England and keep wandering until he found a place where no one had ever heard the name of Ragnar Lothbrok. 

He asked Floki to do him one more favor before the old boatbuilder gave himself up to the gods. Floki was already building himself a one-man boat in preparation of giving himself to the sea, all Sigurd asked was for one more, a wish that the old man granted. Thus, a short time later, when Floki sailed down the river in his boat and turned north, Sigurd followed behind in his own before turning south. 

He sailed for days before the gods brought him to land somewhere on the northern coast of Frankia, on a deserted stretch of darkly forested coastline. Sigurd camped there for a few days, replenishing his water and hunting for food, before he moved on. 

He next came to land in a small city controlled by his Uncle Rollo, the Duke of Normandy, where a warrior recognized his language and brought him to his uncle’s cort. Sigurd stayed there for a while, in the company of his uncle and his new Christian family, but their kindness chafed. His Uncle Rollo avoided him when he could, his Aunt Gisla looked at him as though he were little better than an animal, his young cousins treated him like an exotic curiosity, and everywhere Sigurd went he was hounded for tales of Ragnar. 

So one night, as winter was beginning to loosen its grip on the world and unfurl into spring, Sigurd left under cover of darkness without saying goodbye. It was easier that way. He sailed on farther south and did not look back. 

And so he wandered. For **_years,_** spending a season here, half a year there. He would sail from land to land, city to city, kingdom to kingdom, looking for a place where men had never heard the name of Ragnar Lothbrok. He would come to a new place, find work as a trapper or a builder or a guard for some lord or king, and learn enough of the language to get by, until the ghost of his father tracked him down or his Snake Eye began to draw to many questions, and then he would move on again.

And it worked…..for a while. Years after he had turned his back on his brothers and left his legacy behind, Sigurd was deep in the Mediterranean, farther east than any of his brothers had ever been before, when a storm came over the sea and caught his tiny boat in its teeth. The sun had just begun to burn the horizon when it happened, so all through the night Sigurd fought the wind and the waves and the driving rain to keep himself afloat. Again and again he thought that the sea would take him, that a rogue wave would break his little boat to pieces or hurl him overboard into Rán’s dark, cold halls, but Floki’s little boat held strong and by the time the sky began to lighten from black to grey Sigurd was still clinging to her deck. 

And there, off to the north, a dark, looking shape against the horizon. Land. 

Hauling on the steering oar, Sigurd turned his little boat towards salvation, snarling at the dark waves that still threatened to overwhelm him. 

He almost made it.

A bow-shot from the shoreline, Sigurd’s boat hit a reef, hidden in the dim, storm-veiled early morning light. It tore out her keel with a sound like a woman’s scream, throwing Sigurd violently to the side as his little boat immediately began to take on water, listing sharply to the side. He only had time to grab his axes and his small pack before a rouge waves swept him off the deck and into the still churning sea. 

He barely made it.

Dragged down by his load, Sigurd fought his way to the surface after the first shock of the cold seawater, only to be dragged down again by what he carried. A voice was telling him to let everything go, to let the sea take it all and have a better chance of making it to shore, but the pack held the last few things he held dear in the world, and he’d used those axes to avenge his father, so he ignored the voice and kicked his way to the surface once again. He had time to draw another deep breath just before the next wave hits him, but this time the sea took mercy and threw him forward, closer to shore, as did the next wave after that. Little by little, the sea begrudgingly gave him up, tossing him against rocks and sharp coral even as it threw him towards shore, until the man who crawled up the sand was a bloody, sputtering, shivering mess, weak as a newborn kitten. 

For a while, Sigurd just lay there in the sand, ignoring the patter of raindrops still steadily falling down, catching his breath and thanking every god he could think of for his deliverance. When he could finally manage the strength to get up and look around him, he saw that he’d washed up into a tiny bay, surrounded by rain-slick cliffs of pale yellow. Looking back out sea, he was just in time to see the mast of his faithful little boat, the one built so carefully by Floki that had taken him so far, slip beneath the waves for good.

Sigurd felt a pang in his heart at the sight. Shipwrecked. He’d been shipwrecked. He’d run so hard and so long from the ghost of his father and the memories of his brothers, and now he was stuck. Trapped.

Sigurd looked around him again, searching for any means of escape. The little bay was a desolate place, with not a trace of man to be seen, but a steep path lead up a high hill between the cliffs and away from the bay, so Sigurd followed it. 

He was nearly to the top of the hill when he spotted the silhouette of a man outlined against the brightening sky. 

“Hello!” he weakly called out, thinking that _maybe_ his luck might be turning. “ _Hello!_ ” 

The man didn’t answer. He didn’t even move. Maybe he hadn’t heard him above the sounds of the storm? Maybe Sigurd hadn’t tried the right language? 

He tried again, in Frankish, in Saxon, in Castillan, Galician, and Portuguese, in Moorish, even in the mangled Latin he’d picked up during his 6 months in Rome, but still…..nothing. 

Finally, Sigurd gave up and was openly cursing the man in Norse as he trudged the past few feet up the path. 

“By the gods! What is **_wrong_** with you?!” 

Sigurd was about 20 feet away when he realized his mistake and felt a new chill crawl down his spine. The man was…not a man. What he’d seen was a statue instead, placed perfectly in the middle of the path. It was the most lifelike carving Sigurd had ever seen - every detail was perfect, from the folds in the man’s clothes, to the curves of his fingernails, to the expression ofshock and abject terror carved into his face. 

And there were more. 

The path continued on, winding its way through a deep canyon, and it seemed that around every corner there was a new statue. Each one incredibly lifelike and all wearing the same expression of pure fear. Men, women, old, young - Sigurd passed them all. This one had the same eyes as his mother. Something in the shape of that one’s nose made him think of Ragnar. As Sigurd passed the frozen stone figures he saw flashes of his old life in all of them. He saw Ubbe and Hvitserk, Floki and Helga, Bjorn and Torvi - one of them even looked a bit like Ivar.

Finally, after he’d been trudging through the rain for what seemed like hours, Sigurd heard what sounded like a shout and caught a flicker of movement ahead. It looked like a woman, wearing a long dark cloak, standing next to one of the statues.

“Hello! Ho there! _Hello!_ Please, can you help me? Hello!” he shouted over the rain. The woman stiffened at his call, straightened up, and it seemed like she turned to look at him, but the rain and the dim light made it impossible for Sigurd to make out her face. And then she disappeared into the gloom. 

Sigurd hurried forward to try and catch her, hoping she might be able to lead him to a town, or at least other people, but he was too late. By the time he made it to where she had been standing, the woman was gone. 

This statue was different from the others. Whereas the others had been old women carrying baskets, or young men with hunting bows, this one looked like a warrior. He wore a helmet and thick armor, carried a sword and shield, and did not look quite so frightened as the other statues. 

Barely audible over the sound of the rain, a dry hissing sound caught Sigurd’s attention. Before he could turn a strange hand reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, whirling him around and slamming him up against the stone warrior. 

The woman was back, the one Sigurd had glimpsed before. She stood in front of him with a sneer of contempt on her face, staring with eyes a bright, poisonous yellow, and when she lowered the hood of her cloak he saw that instead of hair her head was covered by the writhing coils of snakes and vipers. Sigurd’s blood ran cold as she smiled with fanged teeth like a cat’s, stepped even closer and screamed in his face. 

But then she stopped. She seemed….confused for some reason. Frustrated perhaps. Taking advantage of her pause Sigurd shoved her away from him, and to his eternal shame, took off sprinting down the path as fast as his legs could carry him, the monster’s screams echoing off the canyon walls as he ran. 

Sigurd ran for miles, dodging each new statue that loomed up out of the murky light. He ran until his lungs burned and his throat felt raw, and then he ran some more. He ran until the twisting path through the canyon spat him out into a small valley, he ran until he caught sight of a stone fort high on a hill, he ran until he made it up the road to its gates, he ran until a group of guards challenged him, and then he finally stopped. Sigurd swayed in place for a moment, his brain trying to pick out the right words to answer them, before he collapsed to the ground. 

—————————————————————————————————————————

It was dark when Sigurd awoke. He was in a small room, lit by a few candles, lying on a hard soldier’s cot. 

“Welcome back.” 

Groaning at the soreness in his muscles, Sigurd turned towards the sound of the voice, eyes landing on an olive-skinned man with a neatly trimmed beard, sitting in a simple wooden chair next to his cot, a bare sword laid across his knees. 

“Where am I?” Sigurd asked. 

“You are in my camp,” the man said, fingers idly playing over the naked blade. “I am General Makarios, and I would very much like to know how you came to be here, and why you charged my camp the way you did.” 

“I was shipwrecked,” Sigurd said, “In the storm….it tore the keel out of my boat and she foundered. The sea threw me up on shore and I followed the path into the canyon.” Suddenly, the horror that he’d witnessed all came rushing back and he shot bolt upright. “The woman!” he shouted. “There was a woman in- in the canyon with- with snakes for hair!” 

General Makarios’ eyes lit up and he sat forward to grab Sigurd’s forearm, peering into his face. “The demon?! You _saw_ the demon?! And you _lived_?” Sigurd nodded weakly. 

“How?” the General continued. “Why didn’t you turn?” 

“I, I don’t know. What do you mean _turn_?” 

“That is what she does - turns men to stone. One look upon her face and all is lost……except for you……You are the first man to look upon her face and live to tell the tale. But why?” Leaning forward again, the General grabbed Sigurd’s chin in a rough grip, peering into his face. 

“Maybe this is it, eh? This snake in your eye. How did that get there?”

“It is the dragon Fafnir, killed by my grandfather Sigurd, who I am named after. Now _let go of me_.” 

The General smirked and released him, but did not stop his careful scrutiny of Sigurd’s face. 

“You can see her.…You can see the demon….She has taken and turned hundreds of our people over the centuries, kept us living in terror, but no one has ever seen her and come back to tell of it.” The General paused, running his fingers down the blade of his sword. “Could you do it again, I wonder? Perhaps it would take a snake to kill a snake.”

_“What?!”_

The General did not seem upset by his reaction. “Could you do it again? I have seen your weapons, I saw the way you ran - we are _miles_ from the mouth of the canyon, and still you ran like that. Look at you - you are a warrior, that much is plain. Could you face her again? Could you kill her?”

“No. Do not ask that of me. That is not who I am anymore!” 

“If you kill her, my people would finally be free. Free of _her_ and the terror she brings. _Please_.” 

“ _No_.”

The General was getting desperate now. He sheathed his sword and leaned forward to grab Sigurd by the shoulders. “Please! She took my brother when we were children! That _monster_ cannot be allowed to go on! I—I could make it worth your while!”

“How?” 

“Your ship! You said it foundered in the storm. I will replace it! My people build the finest ships on the Mediterranean! Kill the demon, bring me her head, and I will _personally_ escort you to my king, tell him what you have done, and see that you are given whatever ship you want from his harbor!” 

—————————————————————————————————————————

Three days later, Sigurd stood next to the General at the mouth of the canyon, axes in hand. From where they stood he could just see the shape of the first statue, no— _victim_ outlined against the pale stone of the cliffs. 

“Swear by your God that if I do this for you, I will get a ship. Swear it to me,” Sigurd said. 

“I swear to you,” said the General. “I swear by our Lord and on the soul of my brother who was taken from me by the demon in that canyon. Bring me the demon’s head and you will get your ship.” 

Sigurd studied the General’s face, but could find no hint of a lie. 

“My men and I will wait here for three days,” the General continued. “If you do not return by then….well, I hope you return.” 

Smiling grimly, Sigurd hefted his axes, nodded once, and began to walk up the path and into the monster’s lair. 

“Good luck Sigurd Snake-Eye!” the General called after him. “May the Lord watch over you!” 

—————————————————————————————————————————

It was eerily quiet as Sigurd crept along the path through the canyon, as though the demon woman who haunted it had turned every living thing inside to stone, not just the humans. Once or twice, Sigurd heard her tell-tale dry hissing, and whirled around, axes ready to strike, only to see nothing but the terrified faces of one of her former victims, silently screaming. 

For the most part, Sigurd just walked, silently creeping through the canyon like a hunter after a cunning deer. He’d been at it for a few miles when suddenly the screech of rending stone pulled his attention skyward, just in time to see a boulder the size of a longship come plummeting down the rock face directly at him. Sigurd just had time to take a few running steps and launch himself out of the way, landing on his belly as the boulder fell to the earth with a _thud_ that shook his bones. By then she was on him. 

The demon dropped out of the sky on gray feathered wings, seizing him like a hawk in taloned feet and hauling him into the air. Sigurd twisted around, fighting her grip on his arms, and sank one of his axes deep into her thigh. She dropped him with a scream, and he caught a flash of writhing snakes and her rage-filled face as he fell. He managed to roll as he landed, getting up as quickly as he could, and by then she was on him again. She landed next to the boulder she’d launched down the rock face, picking up a shard the size of his head and _hurling_ it at him. Sigurd dodged her throw, and the rock exploded into pieces against the wall behind him. Gritting his teeth, he rushed the creature before she had time to find another weapon. 

She was fast and _strong,_ but she wasn’t a fighter. Her petrifying stare meant that never before had she had to truly defend herself from an attack, and as out of practice as Sigurd was, he was still born and raised a warrior. The demon slashed at him with her claws, the vipers of her hair lunging at him, going for his face, seeming to try to pluck out his eyes, but he saw the exact moment where the rage in her eyes turned to fear, when she shifted from trying to destroy him to trying to get away. Sigurd didn’t let her. Her head was the price of his freedom - if she escaped, then Sigurd would be stuck there on that tiny island. He needed a new ship, needed to keep moving, and for that she had to die. 

She tried to fly away, but Sigurd hurled one of his axes at her back, striking her just above her left wing. She spiraled to the ground, and as she scrambled to get up, Sigurd kicked her feet out from under her and brought his final axe down for the killing blow. She blocked it with a flailing arm but when Sigurd raised his hands again she quickly rolled to the side. He screamed in agony when three of the vipers of her hair sank their fangs through his trousers and deep into the flesh of his legs, sending lines of fire shooting towards his heart. 

The monster’s strike had left her open though. Sigurd slashed along her scalp, severing the vipers from her head, and as she arched back in pain, he reached down and wrenched his second axe out of the flesh of her back. Holding them both high above his head he brought them down with all of his strength. 

The blades bit deep into her shoulder, sending up a gush of thick, dark green blood. The demon wailed in pain, the sound ringing off the canyon walls, and rolled over to try and crawl away. Setting one foot at the base of her wings on her back, Sigurd held her down and struck again. Finally the demon went still. 

Gasping for breath, Sigurd staggered away and sat down heavily on a nearby boulder. He was so _tired_. He just wanted to rest. Just needed….just needed a few minutes. 

_GET UP!_

Sigurd jolted awake at the sound of the voice. It sounded….it had sounded like his father…. but there was no one there. Just the body of the creature, slowly oozing thick green blood into the parched earth of the canyon. Shaking himself out of the stupor, Sigurd got to his feet, wincing at the growing pain in his bitten leg.

It took six strikes to free the monster’s head from her body. Sigurd grabbed it by the scaly coils of hair, and started trudging back the way he’d come. 

The walk back seemed to take _hours_. That couldn’t be right, could it? Had he gotten lost? Taken a turn somehow? All the statues were starting to look the same. Hadn’t he seen that one before? Maybe he just needed to sit down, to rest for a while. 

_KEEP MOVING!_

There it was again, Ragnar’s voice. Shaking his head at the ridiculous thought, Sigurd hefted his bloody burden and kept walking. Had to find the General, get back to the General, he’d be able to help, get him to a healer, had to keep going….get his new ship and keep going….

The canyon was fully in shadow by the time Sigurd made it out to the valley, drenched in the gold light of the setting sun. His father’s voice had been hounding him continuously for the last mile, when all Sigurd wanted to do was sit down and _rest,_ but he’d finally made it. In the distance, he could see the General, surrounded by a company of his men, still waiting for him to return. They’d spotted him too, four men detaching from the group and coming up the road to meet him.

Swaying on his feet, Sigurd took a few last shaky steps before collapsing to his knees. The monster’s head he let drop to the ground beside him, and as the General’s men grew closer his last thought was to turn it so her eyes were facing the ground. 

Smiling at his fast-approaching rescuers, Sigurd finally allowed himself to slump the ground. This time, the voice did not stop him. 

_WELL DONE MY SON._

“Thank you Father.” 


End file.
